


A Letter to Satan

by yafan92



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:41:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28408668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yafan92/pseuds/yafan92
Summary: When Feyre sends a drunken letter to Santa on Christmas Eve, she doesn't realize that she actually sent it to Satan, who shows up willing to grant her Christmas wish.
Relationships: Feyre Archeron/Rhysand
Comments: 12
Kudos: 94





	A Letter to Satan

**Author's Note:**

> I saw somebody write this concept for a different fandom and felt like it would be really fun to do for Feyre and Rhys also, so here it is!
> 
> Also, I know Christmas was a few days ago and I meant to have this finished by then, but better late than never, right?

Rhysand sighed as he shut the door to his office, wandering down the hall and out the door. Night had long since fallen, the rest of the building silent and dark as he passed empty offices and conference rooms. He could have left earlier, he supposed, walking out the front door and turning the corner, but it wasn’t as though Christmas Eve was a big deal in Hell. 

He meandered down the street, enjoying the stretch of his legs after spending long hours at his desk all week, and before long was standing in front of his townhouse. The lights were already on in his front room, and winged silhouettes flitted in and out of view through the windows.  _ Typical, _ he thought as he saw one of the figures raise a bottle, followed by the sound of raucous male laughter, and grinned despite himself as he walked up the few stairs to his front door.

“I hope you haven’t cleaned out my wine cellar already,” he called, walking into his home and shucking off his jacket. He hung it on a hook and strode into his parlor, where one of the winged figures in question raised his glass in salute.

“I tried to stop him,” the other male said, and Rhysand shared a sympathetic look with Azriel as the fourth person in the room snorted. 

“Well I didn’t. You’re late, Rhysand,” snapped Amren, the tiny female looking every bit as regal as a queen as she perched in an armchair by the fire with her own glass of wine. “And I manage your schedule, so don’t give me any bullshit about meetings.” 

“I’m afraid the evening rather got away from me,” Rhysand said apologetically. “Lots of newcomers this year, and we’re going to need to expand several different departments in the near future if we keep seeing similar levels of influx.”

“Oh shut up about work already, Rhysie,” called Cassian, who had somehow already finished his glass of wine and was now sprawled across the sofa. “It’s Christmas Eve, and I’m definitely winning this year.”

“You’d think as Head of Security you’d be a little more worried about all the extra souls,” Rhysand snarked back, but he rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and poured himself a glass before topping up the rest of his companions.

“I never worry about anything,” Cassian said dismissively, nodding his thanks as Rhysand handed him his now-full glass. “You have them?” This was directed at Amren, who waved a hand and a small pile of envelopes appeared on the coffee table before them. 

This was their Christmas Eve tradition. Inevitably, every year a few children accidentally misspelled “Santa” and ended up sending their wish lists to “Satan” instead. For the past few decades, Amren, Rhysand’s personal assistant, had collected them instead of just tossing them right away, and the four of them would place bets for the most popular request of that year. This year, Rhysand had bet on the bicycle, which he told himself was because it was a perennial favorite and definitely not because he had been too busy being Lord of Hell to check in with what was popular with mortal children these days. 

Azriel divided the pile into four even stacks, and Rhysand took his as he settled into his favorite chair, pulling a small knife from his boot and slitting open the first envelope. “Remind me what the wagers are?” he asked, pulling the letter free. 

“Cassian guessed sporting equipment, you chose the bicycle, Azriel went with something called a ‘PS5’ and I bet on jewelry,” Amren rattled off, holding up a notepad with their names and guesses. Rhys nodded, unfolding the page in his hand, and groaned when he saw the word “puppy” jump off the page. 

His discontent was mirrored by Cassian, who shot a dark look at Azriel as he announced that the child in his letter asked for a PS5. Azriel gave a faint smirk, looking rather pleased with himself as he too announced “PS5” as the gift in his letter, and Rhysand downed the rest of his drink when Amren’s letter said the same. 

The next two hours passed in much the same way, with the piles of unopened letters shrinking as they emptied one, then another bottle of wine, occasionally calling out some of the stranger requests children had made. “This kid asked for an elephant,” Cassian had said at one point, which set a tipsy Amren off on a rant about responsible pet ownership that had the three males stifling laughter and not daring to look at each other. Although she wasn’t a winged Greater Demon like Cassian and Azriel, her icy glare (and access to all of Rhysand’s files) made her someone none of them wanted to seriously cross. 

By the time they each reached their last envelope, Azriel was undoubtedly the winner. “Why do we even let the Head of Intelligence play?” Cassian groused, grumpy because he had come in dead last. 

“Because if you didn’t, I’d ruin your life,” Azriel replied calmly, although he was grinning ear to ear, flush with the thrill of victory. Rhysand was feeling pleasantly relaxed, having drunk enough wine and laughed enough to forget about the mountain of work still sitting unfinished waiting for him. He opened his last letter, a request for earrings, and tossed it to Amren, who had finished not too far behind Azriel. 

Rhysand was just contemplating whether he wanted another glass of wine when Amren let out a giggle, the sound so unexpected coming from her that Rhysand whirled around to see what had caused it. She was staring down at her final letter, her hand covering her mouth as her shoulders continued to shake with silent laughter. “What is it?” Cassian demanded, looking over as well, and Amren raised her head, not quite managing to keep her face straight as she answered.

“This letter… is not from a child,” she said, laughter still evident in her voice. She made eye contact with Rhysand, her gaze full of wicked amusement. “Maybe Rhysand would feel up to granting a Christmas wish this year.” 

Rhysand blinked. Granting Christmas wishes was certainly not part of his usual duties. “Come on, Amren,” Cassian whined. “What’s the wish?”

Amren held Rhysand’s gaze a moment longer, before dropping it back to the page in her hand. “This letter,” she paused for effect, “is asking for ‘a good fuck’ for Christmas.” She continued reading, “And if you could send someone tall, dark, and handsome, with a huge -”

Cassian interrupted her with a howl of laughter, and Rhysand and Azriel joined in as he doubled over and nearly fell off the sofa before he mastered himself and reached for the envelope still sitting on the table. “Who sent this? Looks like it’s from someone named Feyre Archeron. Can you get her details?” This last question was directed at Azriel, who was still chuckling, but he summoned a Lesser Demon in the form of a swirl of shadow and sent it off. 

It returned a few moments later with a file, which Cassian snatched from Azriel’s hand before he could even open it. He pulled out the documents inside, whistling as he evidently found a photo. “You know what, I’m suddenly in the Christmas spirit,” he said, raising his eyebrows, and held up the page to show a beautiful woman with striking blue-gray eyes and a mischievous sort of smile. “And I definitely fit the description of what she’s looking for,” he added, preening a bit as he flexed his muscles. 

“Except for the wings,” Amren added dryly, “which is why I suggested  _ Rhysand _ might be up to granting a Christmas wish.” 

"Well does her letter specifically say she doesn't like wings?" Cassian challenged, setting off a round of bickering with Amren as Azriel and Rhysand shared a look of fond exasperation.

"Well," interrupted Rhysand at last, "as lovely as this evening has been, I  _ do _ want to get some sleep tonight." He rose and collected the empty glasses and bottles from around the room, as his companions grudgingly started gathering their belongings. Cassian and Azriel strode out together, the former leaning a bit heavily on the latter, but Amren lingered in the doorway. 

“Just think about it,” she said, pressing a piece of paper into Rhysand’s hand, before she also stepped out into the cold evening, calling back over her shoulder, “You deserve a Merry Christmas too, Rhysand.” He looked down as he closed the door and was unsurprised to find Feyre’s letter clutched in his grasp. He shook his head, but tucked it carefully into his pocket anyway as he turned to make his way to the kitchen for a snack before bed.

* * *

Feyre groaned as she opened her eyes, even the weak winter morning light seeming harsh to her considering how much wine she’d had the night before. She debated rolling over and going back to sleep, but the thought of coffee and breakfast had her pulling on her robe and shoving her feet into her slippers before making her way from her bedroom down the hall to her kitchen.  _ Merry Christmas to me, _ she thought glumly as the coffee brewed, looking around at her small space. A few sad decorations looked back at her, since she hadn’t been able to force herself to get a tree when she would be spending the holiday alone, but Mor had convinced her to at least put out a few knicknacks. 

As she poured herself a cup, adding a splash of milk, she considered calling her sisters, who still lived back in their hometown thousands of miles away. As the caffeine hit her system, she thought better of it, remembering the less-than-pleasant conversation the last time they had spoken, when Nesta had the gall to say “I told you so” when Feyre confessed that Tamlin had cheated on her and they were broken up for good. No, she certainly didn’t need Nesta’s holier-than-thou condescension today, of all days. 

So instead, she finished her coffee, then had another cup while she ate a bagel and flipped through the cheesy holiday films on TV. She was just settling into the couch with a blanket to watch the latest Christmas rom-com when a knock sounded at her door.

Feyre’s first thought was that it was Mor, who had barely taken “No” for an answer last night when she urged Feyre to join her and her girlfriend for Christmas dinner. Feyre hadn’t wanted to intrude, as the couple would be going to her girlfriend’s parents’ house, and it had taken an hour over wine to convince her friend that she would be fine. But when she looked through the peephole, however, she saw an incredibly handsome man peering at her door, his thick, black hair impeccably styled around his angular face, and her breath caught in her throat. 

“Just a minute!” she called, before rushing back to her bedroom to throw on a sweater and pair of leggings instead of her fluffy robe and pajamas. The stranger was clearly not looking for her, but, she reasoned, there was no need for him to see her in her pajamas. She frantically combed her fingers through her hair as she raced back to the door, pausing to turn off the TV and calm herself before she opened it to greet the man.

“Hi, can I help you?” she asked, standing in the doorway and giving him an appreciative once-over. He was even more gorgeous now that she was standing in front of him, his fine clothes barely hiding the hints of a powerfully-muscled body beneath them. His eyes, though, were truly captivating, their deep blue making them look violet, and her hands itched to draw him. 

He gave her a friendly smile, looking her up and down as well. “Are you Feyre Archeron?” he asked, and her heart nearly stopped as she realized that he was, indeed, here for her. She nodded warily, pulling the door closer to her body so she could slip inside if she needed to. Was this someone Tamlin had sent to harass her? Some nerve he had, since he was the one who cheated on her. 

Her mind was still racing as the man pulled out a folded piece of paper. He looked… almost sheepish as he said, “I got your letter.”

Feyre frowned. Letter? She hadn’t sent any letters recently, except -

He unfolded the paper, handing it to her, and she groaned as she recognized her own drunken scrawl from the night before. After they had finished off a couple bottles of wine, Mor had decided it would be fun to write letters to Santa like they had when they were kids, and Feyre had been inebriated enough to write the truly mortifying note she now held in her hands. 

Mustering all her bravado, she looked the man up and down. “I must say, you don’t look much like Santa. Don’t you know it’s a crime to read mail that isn’t addressed to you?” 

The man laughed, before pulling the envelope out of his pocket. “But you see, it  _ was _ addressed to me,” he said, handing it to her as well. Indeed, it wasn’t “Santa” written on the front of the letter, but “Satan,” although with her dyslexia it took a minute to realize the difference. 

She handed it back to him with a skeptical look. “So you’re telling me you’re Satan? Lucifer himself?”

“Oh no,” the man replied. “Lucifer retired millennia ago. My name is Rhysand, and I’m the current Lord of Hell. Satan is really a job title more than anything.” 

She gawked at him, trying to decide whether he was pulling her leg, and he slid his hands into the pockets of his tailored pants. He certainly looked the part, she had to admit. Even though his suit was black, and not red, and there were no visible horns, his mouth certainly looked capable of sin, and Feyre couldn’t help the quickening of her pulse as she met those unusual violet eyes. “So what do you want with me?” she asked at last, finally finding her voice.

He raised his eyebrows. “I’m here to grant your Christmas wish, of course,” he said with a smirk, gesturing to the letter in her hands. 

Feyre felt her cheeks redden, but crossed her arms stubbornly. “I didn’t realize that the Lord of Hell was in the habit of doing that,” she retorted, raising her own eyebrows in return.

Rhysand chuckled. “Well, I’ve never gotten such a tempting request before,” he replied, and she knew she wasn’t imagining the appreciation in his glance as he looked her over again. 

“And how do I know you aren’t some psychopath who’s going to murder me if I let you in?” she countered.

He laughed again. “I suppose you don’t know for sure, but I swear to you I am not here to hurt you and if you want me to stop or leave at any time, you have only to say so.”

Strangely, she did believe him. Maybe not about all the Hell nonsense, but about not wanting to hurt her or leaving if she asked him to. And maybe it was the alcohol still lingering in her system, or the overwhelming urge to not be alone on Christmas, but she found herself opening the door and inviting him inside. 

As she shut the door behind him, she watched him take stock of her small apartment. The space was cozy, the walls covered with her own artwork, the furniture cheap but sturdy, but judging by the fine make of his clothing he was used to far grander accommodations. Feyre found herself wanting to defend her humble abode, but he turned back toward her before she could say anything, closing the distance between them so she could feel the heat radiating from his body as he stood before her. 

“So tell me, Feyre,” Rhysand murmured, his deep voice sending a shiver down her spine. “What did you want when you asked for a ‘good fuck’?” He curled a lock of her hair around his finger, and she felt a delicious lick of heat wind its way between her legs. He moved his hand from her hair to her face, lightly stroking down her cheek and neck, pausing at the base of her throat, and she couldn’t help the trembling or the way her mouth opened, panting at his slightest touch. Oh, he certainly knew what he was doing.  _ At this rate, _ she thought, _ he could just keep talking to me and it would still be the best sex I’ve ever had. _

He smirked as though he could read her mind, curling his fingers around her neck as he brought his lips to hers, his kiss slow and exploring. She practically melted, a noise that would have been embarrassing escaping her as she grasped the lapels of his jackets, but he took the sound as encouragement to slip his tongue between her lips. His other hand found its way to her hip, pulling her to him, and she lost all sense of self-consciousness as she moaned lightly into his mouth, feeling the hard planes of his body pressed up against her curves. 

They stood like that for an indeterminate amount of time, pressed against each other at the entrance to her apartment, before Feyre’s wits eventually returned and she loosened her grip on his jacket to slide it off his shoulders. He stepped away from her then, shrugging it the rest of the way off and laying it on her barstool. She bit her lip as she took in the muscles his fitted shirt indeed revealed, before grabbing his hand and leading him down the hallway to her bedroom. Thankfully she had just cleaned a couple of days ago, and Rhysand didn’t seem to mind her unmade bed as he pulled her close to him again, finding her lips with his once more. 

His hands roamed as he explored her mouth, his fingers finding the hem of her sweater and slipping underneath, rubbing small circles on the bare skin of her lower back. Feyre wrapped her hands around his neck, tangling her fingers in the inky hair at his nape that was exactly as soft and silken as she thought it would be. He groaned in approval when she tugged experimentally, his hands splaying against her skin as they ventured higher up her back. 

They broke apart for only a moment when Rhysand tugged her sweater off completely, exposing her top half as she hadn’t bothered with a bra. He growled his approval as he walked them backward so he could sit on the bed, immediately bringing his mouth to one breast and his hand to the other as Feyre buried her fingers even deeper in his hair. He licked and sucked, grazing his teeth gently over the sensitive skin, as his hand rolled and pinched and the other snaked its way around her waist. Soft moans and other noises of approval were falling unchecked from Feyre’s mouth now, and it was all she could do to pull his face back up to hers so she could run her own hands down his chest and start unbuttoning his shirt. 

His hands grabbed her ass as he allowed her to undress him, going more slowly than she might have without his tongue tangling with hers. Eventually, however, she reached the last button, pushing the fabric back so he could shrug it off. She gasped as she took in the intricate tattoos over his chest and shoulders; as an artist, she wanted to sketch them, and although she hadn’t thought she was into the tattooed look, she found herself longing to trace them with her tongue. 

“Maybe later, darling,” Rhysand murmured, returning his attention to her breasts, and she was again struck with the idea that he could read her mind.

_ Can you hear this? _ Feyre thought loudly, and he chuckled in confirmation. 

“Would you like me not to?” he asked, resting his chin on her sternum as he looked up at her. 

“Just pretend you don’t hear anything embarrassing,” she replied, and he hummed as his fingers made their way down to the waistband of her leggings. He trailed kisses down her stomach as he slowly peeled the fabric down her legs, and she grabbed onto his shoulders for balance as he reached her feet, stepping first one foot, then the other, out of the leggings. He studied her, his gaze lingering as he dragged it from her feet up her long, bare legs to her lace-covered sex, then up her torso, finally finding her face.

“I don’t think anything about you could be embarrassing,” Rhysand said softly, then pulled her down so he was lying flat on the bed and she was straddling his lap. Feyre felt herself flush at his words, hiding in another kiss so she didn’t have to maintain the intensity of his eye contact. He rolled them over, however, and hovered above her on his elbows. “You didn’t answer my question,” he teased, trailing his fingers down her body possessively. “What does ‘a good fuck’ mean to Feyre Archeron?”

Feyre groaned, bucking her hips up to meet his, feeling the hard length of his cock beneath the fabric of his pants. His fingers stopped at the lace of her underwear, circling lazily between her legs, but not applying enough pressure to relieve the ache there. “Come on, Feyre,” he wheedled, “How can I grant your Christmas wish if I don’t know exactly what it is you want?”

Between his hand still circling and his mouth pressing searing kisses to her neck, it took Feyre several moments to collect herself enough to remember how to speak. "Your mouth, please," she gritted out from between clenched teeth, and was rewarded with a hum of approval as he again kissed his way down her body. He dropped to his knees on the carpeted floor, his body still between her legs as he reached for the waistband of her underwear. He quickly pulled it down and tossed it aside, leaving her completely bare for him. She leaned up on her arms just in time to watch him settle her legs over his glorious shoulders, and met his eyes as he pressed a kiss to her inner thigh.

Rhysand's eyes glittered as his mouth moved closer and closer to the apex of her thighs, leaving a trail of hot kisses in his wake. When he finally reached his goal and licked a stripe down the center of her core, Feyre groaned and threw her head back, her eyes closing in pleasure. He teased her for a few moments, alternating light kisses with gentle laps of his tongue, until she cried out “More, Rhysand,” and he set his mouth to her in earnest. 

Feyre’s moans were coming nearly every breath now as Rhysand latched his mouth around her sensitive bud, flicking his tongue against it and driving her higher with every stroke. Her inner walls clenched around nothing as she writhed on the bed, feeling empty, and Rhysand immediately slipped a finger inside her, answering the mental plea she hadn’t even realized she made. 

_ More _ , she thought, and a second finger joined the first, the fullness of the two together combining with the frantic motions of his tongue into a symphony of pleasure. Feyre felt her release building and Rhysand must have somehow sensed it too, as a particularly rough thrust of his fingers at just the right angle combined with the barest graze of his teeth had her moaning his name as she came, shuddering and panting as her fingers wound into his hair. He slowed but did not stop, working her through her orgasm and prolonging it as his motions gentled, until she became so sensitive that she tugged at his hair in a silent plea for mercy. 

He pulled away at last, sliding his fingers free and licking them clean before again pressing kisses to her inner thighs. Feyre opened her eyes to find a very self-satisfied look on his face, and she couldn’t even bring herself to comment on it because he had definitely earned it. So instead she reached for him, and he obliged by crawling his way back up her body so she could haul his face down to hers, where she could still taste herself on his lips. 

“What else do you want, Feyre?” he murmured against her mouth, the fabric of his pants rough against her sensitized skin as he settled between her legs.

“I think you’re overdressed for what else I want,” she replied, and he shot her a mischievous grin before rolling to the side and standing up next to the bed. Feyre scooted back against the headboard as she watched Rhysand slowly unbuckle his belt, biting her lip as he drew it through the loops of his pants before setting it aside. He then reached for his button and zipper, making quick work of both before sliding his pants down and revealing the splendor of his lower half. The tent in his underwear made Feyre’s mouth go dry, and he noted her expression with a smirk before pulling those off as well. Standing before her in all his glory, Feyre’s only thought was  _ This is the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen _ . 

“Well I think you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, so that makes us even, Feyre darling,” Rhysand replied, settling on the bed next to her. Feyre blushed, tentatively sliding a hand down his chest, over his sculpted abdomen, earning a shiver from him when her fingertips brushed down the length of his cock. His hips shifted involuntarily, giving her the confidence to grasp him firmly, and the sound he made was something she would treasure for years to come. He wrapped a hand around her, kneading her ass as she continued stroking him, and sucked at her neck hard enough to leave a mark. 

“How do you want me, Feyre?” Rhysand asked, pulling his mouth away from her skin to meet her gaze. Rather than answering, Feyre rolled over, reaching for her bedside table and pulling open the top drawer. She rummaged around for a moment, pulling out a condom and handing it to him. He sat up and ripped the foil packet open, quickly rolling it down his length as Feyre clambered on top of him. She braced her hands on his shoulders as he gripped her hips, lining her up with him so she could sink down on him completely. They let out matching groans as Rhysand seated to the hilt, and an experimental roll of her hips had Feyre moaning again. 

“Fuck me, Rhysand,” she ordered in a breathy voice, and his fingers tightened on her hips as he lifted her off his lap and pulled her back down, hitting a spot inside her that had her seeing stars. He brought his mouth to her breast, biting at her nipple as she rode him. 

“Look Feyre,” he growled, moving his mouth to her ear. “Watch how I fuck you.” Feyre whimpered but obeyed, looking down to where they were joined, his cock disappearing inside of her. The sight had her clenching around him, drawing another groan from his mouth as she felt another orgasm beginning to build. 

“I’m close,” she whispered, and he responded by pulling her even harder against him on the next thrust.

“Touch yourself, Feyre,” he practically pleaded. “I want you to come on my cock.” Feyre let out a sound that was something like a mewl as she dropped her hand between her own legs, drawing fast, tight circles with two fingers. “That’s it, darling,” Rhysand encouraged, his own breathing ragged. “Come for me.” 

It was too much - his voice, his cock, her fingers - and at his words she felt her second climax crash over her, Rhysand’s hands the only thing keeping her moving as she lost all tension in her body, dropping her forehead to meet his. Rhysand’s own movements were erratic, and he breathed her name as he stilled, crushing her close to him as he found his own pleasure. Feyre wrapped both arms around his shoulders as his cock twitched inside her, swiveling her hips in small circles until his breathing returned to normal and his hands relaxed their grip. 

She leaned back slightly to meet his remarkable eyes, smiling slightly when she saw he looked as wrecked as she felt. “Hi,” she breathed, and he grinned and wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her down with him as he laid flat on the bed.

“Hi,” he replied, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of her mouth. Feyre slid off of him, curling into his side without breaking eye contact. 

“So you can read minds?” she asked, raising her eyebrows.

Rhysand laughed. “One of the perks of the job,” he replied, eyes twinkling.

“The job being Lord of Hell.”

“Exactly, darling.”

Feyre squinted at him, still not entirely sure he was telling the truth, but with sex like that she decided it didn’t really matter. “So as Lord of Hell, do you get the whole day off for Christmas?” she asked, trailing a finger down the swirling tattoos on his chest.

Rhysand cupped her chin, catching her lower lip with his thumb. “Another perk of the job is that no one will yell at me for not showing up to the office,” he replied, his eyes darkening in a way that had Feyre clenching her thighs together again. 

“Good,” she whispered, “because I have a few more things to add to my Christmas list, if you’re still in a giving mood.” And as Rhysand smirked and rolled on top of her, bringing his mouth down to hers, Feyre thought that she was going to have a merry Christmas after all. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed! Also please send help, I can't stop writing about these characters...


End file.
